


transformation

by Adrianna99



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (kind of), (more or less), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 04:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18003620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrianna99/pseuds/Adrianna99
Summary: Viktor needed to change in order to win, they said.So he smiled.  He changed.  He won.  And slowly, the changes weren't really changes anymore.(Yurio needed to change in order to win, they said)





	transformation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Littorella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littorella/gifts).



> This was written as a gift fic for the lovely [Alli](https://littorella.tumblr.com/)! Her prompt is in the end notes. I really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

 

“Hey, Viktor,” Yuuri said quietly, touching Viktor’s elbow.  

Viktor paused in his conversation with one of his old sponsors, and smiled adoringly at his fiancé.  “Yes, Yuuri?” 

Yuuri smiled back at him, absently fiddling with the silver medal around his neck, and then said, “I’m going to find a bathroom, I’ll be back in a bit, alright?” 

“Of course,” Viktor replied with a nod.  Yuuri gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking away, and Viktor repressed a sigh before turning back to the sponsor.  

“So, you’re really coming back to skating, Viktor?” the sponsor asked eagerly, picking up their conversation where it had left off before Yuuri’s welcome distraction.  

Viktor smiled charmingly, and nodded.  The sponsor had already asked three times.  “Yes, I’ve decided to come back,” he said firmly, and tried not to grit his teeth.  His voice was  _ far _ to sharp for talking to sponsors.  Viktor took a small sip of his champagne to cover his pause, and then added, “I hope you will continue to support me.”  

“Oh, of course,” the sponsor said hurriedly.  He puffed up, and added, “We never lost faith that you would come back.”  He winked. “We still want to be associated with the five time world champion of figure skating, after all.  Or maybe the soon-to-be six time world champion, eh?” 

Viktor chuckled and nodded, and didn’t say how much he wouldn’t mind if it was Yuuri who stood on the Worlds podium above him.  “Oh,” he said, catching sight of two familiar people across the room. “I’m very sorry,” he said with a polite smile, “I need to speak to Yakov.  If you’ll excuse me?” 

“Of course,” the sponsor said graciously, thoroughly charmed, and Viktor wasted no time in walking away.  As he neared Yakov and Yurio, however, he caught the last few words of their conversation. 

“This behavior is completely unbefitting of a figure skater!” Yakov hissed angrily at a sullen Yurio, who had his arms crossed across his chest and his chin down.  “I expect you to do everything in your power to restore your image as quickly as possible, after that ridiculous exhibition skate,” Yakov added. 

Viktor pressed his lips together, and stepped closer.  “Yakov,” he said, hoping that he had managed to keep his voice friendly and calm.  

“Vitya,” Yakov replied, looking up.  He smiled a little, but there was nothing warm in his eyes.  “Good, another skater with a little bit of sense,” he added, and then shook his head.  “I can’t believe I said that about  _ you, _ of all people.”  

Viktor inhaled, exhaled.  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, coming to a stop next to Yurio, facing Yakov.  

“Explain to Yura why his exhibition skate was completely inappropriate,” Yakov blustered, and then turned on the scowling, clearly upset Yurio.  “This idiot might not have much sense in his head, but at least he knows better than to humiliate himself on the ice!” 

Viktor clenched his jaw.  He knew how hard Yurio had worked on that exhibition, how excited he had been, how miraculous it was that he had even managed to pull it off in the first place, with so little practice.  Viktor placed a hand on Yurio’s shoulder, and then said, “I thought your exhibition skate was amazing.” 

Yurio looked up sharply, his eyes wide.  There were still a couple of smudges of mascara in the corners of his eyes.  “What?” Yurio said, too surprised to be difficult. Yakov just gaped at them.  

“I thought it was really good,” Viktor repeated firmly.  “You skated perfectly befitting of the Grand Prix Final champion.  Well done.” 

Yurio stared at him open-mouthed, and Yakov spluttered, “His skate will wreck his image!  He must be refined, charming, sophisticated, and that exhibition was none of those things! Sponsors will abandon him in droves, and-”  

Viktor gave Yakov a hard look, and his hand tightened ever so slightly on Yurio’s shoulder.  “I see no reason why that should be true,” he said slowly, calmly. “Yurio skated with emotion, and he skated a difficult program for an exhibition.  I imagine that would serve to impress sponsors, rather than scare them away. In this day and age, Yakov, sponsors like it when skaters skate true to who they really are.”  

Yakov scowled deeply.  “If that’s true, then standards have truly dropped,” he replied, and then said sternly to Yurio, “I’m just trying to  _ help _ you.  If you want to be anywhere near as successful as Viktor is, you must carefully sculpt your image to show only the best parts of yourself.  The world wants to see beauty, not whatever…  _ that _ was.”  

Viktor stepped forward, his fist clenched, ready to argue, but a hand on his arm stopped him.  “Viktor,” Yuuri said quietly, and when Viktor glanced over his shoulder he saw Yuuri watching him with sympathy, with love, with understanding.  

And of course, Yuuri would know.  Yuuri would understand. Yuuri, who didn’t come from incredible wealth but had made it to the top of the skating world anyway.  Yuuri, who had been Viktor’s fan for years, who sometimes seemed like he knew more about Viktor than Viktor knew about himself. Yuuri, who would understand perfectly why Viktor thought the way he did.

***

Viktor was discovered by Yakov at an ice rink, of course.  

Every other Monday, the rink closest to Viktor’s house in Moscow offered free skate rentals to everyone under ten years old, and after Viktor’s mother had taken him once he had begged to go back again and again.  

Both his parents worked on Mondays, but after weeks of pleading they had agreed that he could go to the rink on the city bus after school, and someone would pick him up on the way home.  Viktor didn’t even mind waiting outside the rink for an hour or so, if it meant he got to  _ skate _ .  Sometimes he even managed to sit in on some of the group lessons that the rink offered, if the teacher leading it didn’t mind his hanging on.  

But on that Monday, the Monday that Viktor met Yakov, something was a little different.  There were a lot of kids, both boys and girls, gathered along with their parents around the skate rental when Viktor walked in the door, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.  

It took him a little bit of shouldering to get to the desk, through the people that seemed to be waiting for something other than skates, and when get got there the woman working didn’t even look up from her paperwork as she said, “He’s not here yet, you’ll have to wait with everyone else.”  

Viktor blinked.  “Um?” he said uncertainly.  “I don’t know who you’re talking about?  Can I skate today?” 

The woman looked up for the first time, and smiled slightly at Viktor, recognizing him.  “Oh, hello, Vitya,” she said. She bit her lip, and hesitated. “Listen, the ice was reserved today for someone else,” she said.  “A figure skating coach from St. Petersburg is here to talk to some of the classes of younger kids about going into the sport competitively.  I’m afraid we’re not having open skate today.” 

Viktor looked down, and he tried not to let his lip wobble.  He had been looking to skating since he had left the rink last time, and it had been what was getting him through the week.  “OK,” Viktor whispered, and sniffled before wiping roughly at his face. “OK.” 

He turned to go, and the woman sighed.  “Alright,” she said quickly. “Vitya, you can skate, but only for a little, alright?  Feltsman is late, so you can have a little time.” 

Viktor turned back, his eyes bright.  “Really?” 

The woman nodded quickly, and pulled a pair of skates from under the counter.  “Yes, here you go,” she said. “Just make sure to stay out of the way, and get off the ice if anyone asks.”  

“Thank you,” Viktor gasped, and quickly took the skates before she could change her mind.  

He tucked his backpack in back of the bleachers on one side of the rink, out of sight, and then stowed his tennis shoes beside them.  He walked in threadbare, socked feet to the boards, and sat down to pull on and lace up his skates before stepping onto the ice. 

Because it had technically been reserved by the skating coach from St. Petersburg, there was no one else skating.  This was the first time in his life that Viktor had had the ice all to himself, and it was  _ exhilarating. _

Viktor made his way to the center of the ice, taking a couple of minutes to get used to the skates on his feet, and then began to do figure eights.  He thought back to a couple weeks earlier, when he had watched as much as possible of the figure skating Grand Prix Finals. Even on his parents’ old, grainy TV, he had been completely enchanted by the skaters on the ice, sparkling and graceful and pretty.  

Viktor closed his eyes and tried to move his arms like he had seen on the TV, skating in a small circle.  He had been utterly spellbound, watching the skaters glide and jump like they were flying. He wondered, just for a moment, what that would  _ be _ like.  

Viktor opened his eyes and then tried a little jump, only half a rotation, a move he had seen some of the kids in the skating classes try.  He landed it somehow, a little wobbly, and then grinned. It only took him a couple more minutes of practice to master the jump, and then Viktor danced across the ice like he danced in his bedroom sometimes, adding in little jumps whenever he felt like it.  

Viktor laughed, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling as he skated backwards, arms held straight out.  Skating was  _ amazing- _ his refuge, where he didn’t have to worry about anything in the world.  Where he could be happy, without burden,  _ free. _

He tripped over his toepick slightly, startled, when the door to the rink suddenly slammed open, but he otherwise ignored whoever had come in as he pushed himself into as elegant of a spin as he could manage.  Now that he was on the ice, they would have to  _ force _ him off.  

“Hey!” someone yelled, and Viktor deigned to glance at the door.  Silhouetted against the light of lobby in comparison to the relative dimness of the rink stood a man who looked as though middle age hadn’t treated him well, scowling at Viktor.  Behind him was a gaggle of kids in skates, the kids that had been waiting with their parents in the lobby. 

“Hello,” Viktor called back cheerfully before dancing across the ice away from them, his long hair whipping behind them as he dared to try another single jump.  

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Feltsman,” Viktor faintly heard the rink employee say as she pushed her way through the crowd of kids.  “Vitya!” she called. “You need to get off the ice now.” 

“No, wait,” Viktor thought he heard Yakov say, and then the older man shouted to Viktor, “Do you skate?”  

Viktor raised an eyebrow, staring at him as he neatly skated a backwards figure eight.  “I mean, are you in training,” the man snapped. “To compete. How old are you, nine?” 

Viktor’s eyes widened slightly.  “No, I’m not nine,” he replied. 

“Come off the ice, let me talk to you,” the man ordered.  

Viktor sighed heavily, but skated until he was close enough that the man wouldn’t have to shout across the rink at him.  “Vitya,” the rink employee said with a frown as he neared. “I told you that you could skate only if you promised to get off the ice when Mr. Feltsman got here.”  

“No, it’s fine, he can stay,” Feltsman said with an absent wave of his hand, and then gave Viktor an appraising look.  “You skate like you’ve been trained,” he said. “Are you going to skate competitively?” 

Viktor’s heart panged, for just a moment, with a longing so strong that it made his stomach hurt.  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m just having fun.” 

“You could be great, though,” Feltsman insisted, and then shook his head.  “Never mind.” He turned to the crowd of kids behind him, and said, “Ready to get started?”  When most of them answered affirmatively, he turned his attention back to Viktor and said, “You can stay too, if you like.”  

Viktor swallowed hard, and shrugged.  “Come on, Vitya, off the ice,” the rink employee all but begged.  

Viktor sighed heavily and stepped off the ice, stumbling a few steps before sinking to the ground so that he could take his skates off.  Without looking, he heard the other kids replace him on the ice as all the lights in the rink were suddenly turned on. Viktor kept his head down as he scurried to where he had left his bag and shoes, quickly changing into his tennis shoes and pulling on his jacket.  He was just about to leave, his backpack hanging from one hand and the borrowed skates in the other, when a hand came down to rest on his shoulder. Viktor looked up in surprise to see Feltsman standing behind him, studying him seriously. 

“What’s your name?” he asked.  

Viktor shrugged him off, gritting his teeth.  “Why does it matter?” he said a little bitterly.  Feltsman gave him a hard look. 

“Viktor Nikiforov,” Viktor replied finally.  

“Do you want to skate competitively, Viktor Nikiforov?” Feltsman asked.  “Because you very well could. You skate well enough, and with the proper training, well… You could be great.  So do you want to compete?” 

Viktor shook his head, his long bangs in his eyes.  “I can’t,” he said quietly, the truth scraping at the roof of his mouth.  He knew that figure skating was a sport as expensive as it was beautiful, which meant… it just wasn’t an option for Viktor.  

“That’s not what I asked,” Feltsman replied.  He grimaced. “Stick around until the end of the demonstration,” he ordered.  “I’d like to talk to whatever parent comes to pick you up.” He patted Viktor’s shoulder, just once, and then left before Viktor got the chance to refuse.  

Viktor thought, for just a moment, about leaving.  It would be the better option. He could go home and forget that he had ever met Coach Feltsman.  It didn’t hurt to have his hopes crushed if he didn’t let himself have hopes in the first place. 

Viktor bit his lip and then set his backpack down again.  He inched his way over to the bleachers and sat down, wrapping his arms around himself and watching as Feltsman talked to the kids on the ice about what it took to be a competitive figure skater.  The coach talked about determination, grace, work ethic, a desire and  _ need _ to perform, about the strength it would take for any one child to climb to the top of the podium at an ISU competition.  Viktor noticed that Feltsman  _ didn’t _ mention the biggest thing that kept  _ Viktor _ from trying to compete.  

Viktor was shivering by the time Feltsman was done, after sitting in the cold rink without the benefit of moving around on the ice, and as the other kids left the rink and went to find the parents that had come to pick them up Viktor climbed down from the bleachers again.  

“Good, you’re still here,” Feltsman said gruffly when he caught sight of Viktor.  “Can I see you skate?” Viktor brightened slightly. He knew that the rink was probably closing soon, but if he could just have a little more time… 

Feltsman watched silently as Viktor pulled his skates on again, walking as quickly as he could to the edge of the rink.  Just before he could step foot on the ice, Feltsman said, “Do you know any routines?” 

Viktor paused.  “No,” he said carefully after a long moment.  “I told you, I’m not taking lessons or anything.”  

“Well, can you make up a routine?” Feltsman pressed.  “Do you know the elements?” 

Viktor bit his lip.  He watched figure skating on TV as much as possible, and had read as many books about figure skating as he could possibly find at the public library.  He knew all about axels and loops, laybacks and camel spins and step sequences. But he couldn’t  _ do _ them, not properly.  

Feltsman, seeing his hesitation, sighed.  “Or just skate like you were before,” he said.  “It doesn’t matter to me.” 

Viktor nodded slightly and stepped onto the ice, but now his thoughts were whirling.   _ Could _ he choreograph a routine? Probably not… but what if he did?  He skated a couple of neat figures, hands clasped behind his back as he watched his skates, thinking hard.  

For whatever reason, Coach Feltsman seemed to think that he was good, had potential. was worth making a hassle over.  He pictured himself out on the ice of a competition, with cheering crowds around him screaming his name before he skated a routine that made them all gasp and cry with delight.  

Viktor stepped out of his figure and called across the ice to Feltsman, “Why do you think I would be a great skater?”  

Feltsman eyed him for a moment.  “I’ve been coaching for a long time,” he said.  “And sometimes, at this point, I can tell. Besides, you skate as well as you do without any training, which really speaks to your innate talent.”  

Viktor shrugged slightly, and resumed his slow skating.  It hadn’t ever really occurred to him that he might have  _ innate talent, _ that it was special that he had taken to the ice so quickly.  Or maybe Feltsman was lying. Adults lied sometimes, to make kids happier.  

Feltsman watched Viktor skate in silence for what felt like a long time, but Viktor concentrated so hard on ignoring the man that he almost forgot he was there.  When he got bored of skating figures he began to make up steps in a haphazard sequence, pretending for a moment that he was skating in a real competition, amazing the world.  

He almost forgot that Feltsman was watching him, at least until the doors to the rink opened.  “Are you Mrs. Nikiforov?” Feltsman said, breaking Viktor’s concentration, and Viktor turned to see his mother standing in the doorway with an odd expression on her face.  

“I am,” she said absently, and then called, “Vitya, off the ice.  Why weren’t you waiting for me?” 

Viktor frowned.  “They said I could keep skating,” he replied.  

“It’s time to go home,” his mother said firmly, and Viktor skated over to the edge of the rink with a huff.  

“Mrs. Nikiforov,” Feltsman said, stepping forward. “My name is Yakov Feltsman, I work as a figure skating coach in St. Petersburg.  I think your son has a lot of potential to be an amazing figure skater, if he were to be properly trained.” 

Viktor bent over to take off his skates, and felt his mother’s hand fall heavily onto one shoulder.  “No,” she said. “Sorry, no.” 

Viktor looked up, and before he could stop himself, asked, “No?”  

His mother avoided his eyes. “Sorry, Vitya,” she said quietly.  “I know you like skating. But it’s not an option.” Viktor inhaled, exhaled, and nodded.  He looked back down, fiddling with the laces of his skates. 

“Are you sure?” Feltsman asked.  

Viktor’s mother shrugged helplessly.  “We’re not in a position to move to St. Petersburg,” she said.  

Feltsman shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat.  “Viktor could stay with me,” he said. “My wife and I have more than enough room in our apartment.”  

“Figure skating is dangerous.”  

“Not if he’s properly trained.”  

Viktor’s mother bit her lip.  “We don’t have the means to support a sport that expensive,” she said finally, softly.  

Feltsman eyed her thoughtfully.  “I’m willing to waive my coaching fee for a trial period,” he said.  “And the winners of each competition get prize money and can earn money through sponsorships.”  

Viktor stepped out of his left skate and dared to look up hopefully at his mother.  “Can I?” he whispered. 

His mother hesitated.  “I’ll talk to my husband,” she finally said.  

Viktor sighed, looking down again.  That usually meant no. Feltsman didn’t seem to realize that fact, and handed Viktor’s mother a business card with a request to call him if they changed their minds, and then he left.  

Viktor watched him go, and then reached up to grip his mother’s hand.  “Alright, Vitya,” his mother said with a sigh. “Let’s get going.” 

Viktor cast one last look over his shoulder at the expanse of ice behind him before letting his mother lead him out of the rink.

***

Viktor sat in the kiss and cry at his first real competition, next to his first real coach, waiting eagerly for his scores  and tightly clutching one of the stuffed animals that he had picked up from the ice after his performance . 

It had taken a lot of planning, and arguing, and cutting corners, but Viktor’s parents had finally agreed to take Yakov Feltsman’s offer to coach Viktor into a figure skating champion.  So Viktor had moved to St. Petersburg to live with Yakov and his slightly scary wife Lilia, and spent as many hours as possible at the ice rink, whenever he wasn’t in school. 

And, after years of work, years of bruised and bleeding feet and tired nights and only seeing his family a couple times a year, he was  _ finally _ allowed to compete in a real ISU competition.  He had, miraculously, made it to the Junior Grand Prix Finals, despite what he considered to be some disappointing scores earlier in the series.  

But it didn’t matter.  As long as he did well (and he  _ had _ done well- Viktor had skated his programs with as much power as he could, had put his entire heart and soul into his skates, had worked for months to get the technical score as high as possible and had just performed it perfectly, so there was no  _ way _ he could lose) it would be worth it.  His scores would prove to everyone that all his hard work, his family’s sacrifices, would be worth it.  He would win, and that would only be the start. 

Viktor  _ hungered _ for gold.  

“Viktor Nikiforov,” the announcer said, and then read off his score.  Viktor’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide. 

“Alright,” Yakov said gruffly, patting Viktor on the shoulder.  “You tried your best.” 

Viktor could feel tears welling in his eyes, and he angrily dashed them away, his score ringing in his head.  It was low, horribly low, much lower than he had thought it would be. Much lower than he  _ deserved _ .  Viktor had skated perfectly!  He had put tons of emotion into his movements on the ice, he had painted his anger and determination and ambition on the ice, his technical and performance scores should be through the roof!  

“No, wait,” Viktor said desperately, refusing to move even when Yakov tried to get him out of the kiss and cry.  “They’re going to make an announcement, they’ve made a mistake! They must have added up my score wrong!”  He jumped to his feet and threw the plush in his hands to the ground, ignoring the shocked look he got from a nearby reporter. 

“Viktor,” Yakov growled, and his anger surprised Viktor so much that he let himself be led out of the kiss and cry, out of the arena and away from the roaring crowds already cheering for the next graceful skater on the ice.  Viktor followed Yakov down a hallway, breathing deeply and trying not to cry, counting each time his skate guards clicked on the concrete.  Now that he was off the ice the rink felt a lot chillier, and he tried not to shiver in his short sleeves and ripped jeans.  If only Yakov had let him add a leather jacket to his costume like he had wanted-

“Vitya,” Yakov finally said when they stopped, and faced Viktor.  

“This isn’t  _ fair,” _ Viktor said immediately.  He screwed up his face, a sick feeling in his mouth.  “Maybe my PCS wasn’t as high as I thought it was, but my technical performance was basically perfect!  I know that much at least, and I’m much better than the rest of the people out on the ice. I shouldn’t be in  _ last _ place!”  

“Vitya,” Yakov said firmly, reaching out to grip Viktor’s shoulder tightly in one hand.  He bent down a little and looked Viktor in the eyes. “Look at me,” he said. “Your technical was fine, and your performance did everything you wanted it to.  But that’s  _ not _ what the judges are looking for.”  

Viktor blinked.  “What?” 

Yakov frowned.  “Figure skating is a sport about grace, elegance,  _ class. _  Your skating is good, but it’s not the kind of good that the judges will give you points for.  If you want to score as well as the other skaters, you need to be what the judges want to see. And they don’t want to see anger, frustration, ambition, hardship.  They want you to be beautiful, and they want to see that beauty look easy. They want to see someone graceful and refined to represent our country, not… what you just skated.”  

Viktor frowned.  “But it’s not easy,” he said.  “Isn’t it better to show how hard you worked to get somewhere?”  

Yakov shook his head.  “If you want to win, you need to become the person the judges want to see,” he replied, and there was something almost sympathetic in his gruff voice.  

“But that’s not who I am!” Viktor exclaimed, clenching his fists.  “If I can’t skate what I want and still be able to win, how can I have fun skating?”  

Yakov let go of his shoulder, stepped back.  “If you think you can win by having fun, Vitya, you’re going to be very disappointed,” he said, and then turned.  “I’m going to finish watching the programs, come back when you’re ready.” 

Viktor watched his coach go with thin lips, his frame trembling slightly with repressed anger.  But, the longer he listened to the distant cheers of the crowd for whatever skater was on the ice, the more he considered the possibility that Yakov might know what he was talking about.  

If that was true… Viktor would have to completely remake himself in order to win as he had promised.  

And if that’s what it took, then that was what Viktor would do.  He could have fun on his own time. He would become whoever he needed to be in order to succeed at the only thing he knew how to do well.

***

“Viktor Nikiforov!” a reporter called, raising her hand.  

Viktor smiled charmingly as cameras flashed, capturing the image of him at the middle of the press conference table, with the gold and bronze medalists at his side.  When called on, the reporter stood and said, “You’re a private person, Mr. Nikiforov, but how does your family feel about your first World Championship silver? Did they come to watch you skate?”  

Viktor tried his best not to tense at that question- by sixteen, he had only just started to get the hang of watching how he acted and reacted around cameras.  “My family is very proud of me,” he said with just enough sincerity in his voice to cover up the fact that he hadn’t even seen his parents in over a year, busy as he was with practice.  He leaned his chin on his hand and smiled again before adding, “I’m sure they watched, and I hope they enjoyed.” He winked, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach. 

Another reporter called out another question for the gold medallist, and Viktor leaned back in his seat slightly, his mind whirling.  

Worlds had been in Moscow, where (as far as he knew) his family still lived.  And he and Yakov weren’t returning to St. Petersburg until the next morning. So, if the press conference ended quickly enough, Viktor could go visit his parents.  He was sure they hadn’t watched his performances, and it was possible that they didn’t even know he had been skating, but it would be nice at least to see them. 

Viktor tried to hide his impatience for the rest of the press conference, and as soon as it was over Viktor pulled Yakov to the side in the hallway and whispered, “I’m going to visit my parents, OK?”  

Yakov frowned deeply.  “Do they know you’re coming?” 

Viktor hesitated.  “Well, no, but… I’m going to call before I go?”  Calling would probably be a good idea, actually, instead of just showing up unannounced.  

Yakov sighed heavily.  “If you’re not back here by eight, I’ll quit as your coach,” he threatened.  

Viktor grinned.  Yakov had been threatening to quit for years.  “Sounds good!” he chirped. “See you at eight!”  

Before Yakov could think of another reason to object he slipped off, making his way out of the rink and back to his hotel mostly unobserved.  He quickly changed out of his sweaty free skate costume and into a nicer shirt and jeans, slipping his Team Russia jacket on over top. He hesitated just a moment, and then stuffed his silver medal in his pocket before sitting down on his bed and digging out his phone.  He flipped it open and bit his lip before dialing, hoping his parents still had the same landline. 

The phone rang once, twice, before it was picked up and a child said, “Hello?”  

Viktor hesitated.  “Sasha?” he said after a moment.  The child on the phone made a humming noise. 

Viktor took a deep breath.  “This is Vitya,” he said. “Your older brother.  Do you remember me?” 

The child was silent for a moment, and then yelled, his voice a little muffled, “Mama, telephone!”  

Viktor pressed his lips together, listening to the rustling on the other end, and then his mother said into the phone, “Hello, who is this?” 

“Hey, mama,” Viktor said, his mouth dry.  “It’s Viktor.” He took a deep breath. He thought he heard his mother do the same, but before she could say anything he forged on.  “Um, I’m in Moscow right now,” he said. “If you have the time, I’d like to come and see you.” 

His mother paused a moment, and then said, “Of course we’d like to see you, Vitya.  When will you be coming?” 

Viktor winced.  “Tonight?” he asked.  

His mother paused again, long enough that Viktor started to get worried, and then she said, “That’s fine.  Do you remember the address?” 

“Of course,” Viktor said quickly.  “I think I can be there in a little less than an hour?”  

“Alright,” his mother said.  “We’ll see you then.” 

“Bye,” Viktor croaked, and then hung up. He took several deep breaths, staring up at the ceiling, and then got up to tuck his phone away before leaving his hotel room.  

In the end, it took Viktor about forty five minutes to make his way to his family’s apartment, once he was able to catch a taxi and remember the address.  When he got out of the cab he found himself in front of his old apartment building, which looked almost just as he had remembered it. 

Viktor took a deep breath of chilly air and then pushed open the door, ducking into the stairwell before anyone could notice him.  

Viktor ran up the flights of stairs to the floor that he hoped his family still lived on, his sneakers slapping on the concrete steps as he kept one hand pressed to the wall to guide his way in the dim light.  When he got to the last floor he stopped, panting, his legs wobbling a little, before letting himself out into the hallway. 

Viktor gave himself just a moment to catch his breath and regain his composure before striding down the hall and knocking firmly on the door to his family’s apartment.  A moment later the door was opened by the same child Viktor had spoken to on the phone, a young boy with tousled blond hair and grey eyes. 

“Hello,” Viktor said with as much of a smile as he could muster.  “I’m Vitya.” 

“I know,” the boy grumbled, and then shouted over his shoulder, “Mama!”  Viktor shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and listened to the footsteps that drew closer until his mother appeared in the doorway.  

“Vitya,” she said with a tired smile.  “It’s nice to see you. Your father just got home from work.  Sasha, let him in.” Viktor’s mother gripped the young boy by the shoulders and pulled him out of the way.  

Viktor stepped inside, his eyes down.  “Thanks for letting me come,” he said quietly.  “It’s been a while.” 

“It has,” his mother agreed, closing the door behind him.  

Viktor lifted his chin, looking around the apartment.  It was, somehow, almost the same as he had left it so long ago, but just different enough that it made him a little uneasy.  Instead of Viktor’s shoes by the door there was a muddy pair that probably belonged to Sasha, his father’s coat on a hook was a different color, the windows were smudged and dusty on the outside in different places. 

“Come in,” Viktor’s mother said.  “Have you eaten anything?” 

Viktor shook his head.  “I’m fine, I ate before I left,” he lied.  

“Are you having supper with us?” Sasha asked, pulling at his sleeve and looking up at him with wide eyes.  

Viktor bit his lip.  “I don’t think so,” he said. “My coach wants me back to the hotel by eight.”  

“Where are you staying?” Viktor’s mother asked, herding them out of the doorway and into the kitchen.  Viktor told her, and ignored the odd flicker of shame (guilt?) that twinged in her stomach as surprise flickered across her face before she turned away.  “Dima!” she called. “Vitya is home!” 

A moment later Viktor’s father appeared in the doorway.  “Vitya,” he said with a nod. “It’s good to see you again.”  

“Thanks,” Viktor said shuffling his feet.  

“Sit, sit,” his mother said, and Viktor took a seat at the kitchen table, joined a moment later by Sasha and his father.   “At least have a drink, even if you don’t want anything to eat,” Viktor’s mother fussed, and stepped over to the sink to get him some water.  

“No, no, I’m fine!” Viktor exclaimed, holding up both hands.  He loved his mother, he did, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to think about how clean water from the tap might be.  

Viktor’s mother glanced over her shoulder, and then slowly set the glass down.  “Alright.”

“Your hair is getting very long,” Viktor’s father said after a long moment of silence, studying him.  

Viktor absently played with the end of his ponytail.  “It is, yes.” 

“Hm,” his father just murmured.  There was another pause, and then his father said, “So, what are you doing in Moscow?”  

“I’m here for a skating competition,” Viktor explained.  “The World Championships.” 

“Did you win?” Sasha asked eagerly.  

Viktor smiled a little crookedly and took his silver medal out of his pocket,  making sure to find a clean spot before carefully laying it down .  “I came in second.”  

“How is skating working out for you?” Viktor’s father asked, his eyes sharp, while Sasha picked up the silver medal and stared at it.   “Was it worth the cost of leaving?” 

Viktor cleared his throat.  “Um, it’s going well for me?” he said tentatively, ignoring the second question.  “Silver at Worlds is pretty good. Especially since there are a lot of really good older skaters competing.”  

He fiddled with the zipper on his team jacket, thinking of his prize money.  Skating was expensive, and Viktor would need new costumes and choreography for next season, would probably need a new pair of skates at the rate his feet were growing, would of course need to pay Yakov, but… “I won some money,” he said in a quiet voice.  “If you need-” 

“We’re fine,” Viktor’s father said firmly.  

Viktor looked up before nodding.  “Um. Right.” 

Sasha poked him in the arm, and then said, “Vitya, are you going to figure skate in the Olympics?”  

Viktor rubbed the back of his neck a little awkwardly.  “Um, I’m not sure,” he admitted, and then added wistfully, “It would be really neat if I qualified.”  

“I’ll watch you, if the TV’s not busted,” Sasha promised.  

Viktor’s smile softened.  “Thanks.” 

The conversation turned away from skating after that, as Viktor’s parents asked him about St. Petersburg, and in exchange told him about what had happened in Moscow since he had last been to visit.  Dinner was just a little bit awkward, as Viktor sat at the table and tried not to let his stomach growl while his family ate, but Sasha asked enough questions about his supposedly glamorous skating lifestyle to fill the silence.  

Viktor’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket just as everyone was finishing, and Viktor jumped up from the table with his face red.  “I’m sorry!” he gasped. “I’ll be right back.” He stepped out of the kitchen, ignoring his younger brother’s curious look, and answered his phone.  

“You’d better be on your way back, Vitya,” Yakov blustered without waiting for a greeting.  “Or you’re not going to make it by your curfew.” 

“I’m sixteen, Yakov, I don’t  _ have _ a curfew,” Viktor replied, but glanced at his watch.  It was getting close to seven thirty, and Viktor reluctantly tried to calculate how long the taxi ride over had taken.  “I’m on my way,” he sighed, and then hung up before Yakov could scold him some more. 

He poked his head back into the kitchen and said a little awkwardly, “I’m sorry, that was my coach.  Um, I have to get going.” 

“Of course,” Viktor’s mother said, standing up.  “Thank you for coming to visit us, Vitya.” 

“Thanks for having me,” Viktor mumbled into her shoulder as she hugged him.  

“Come back soon, Vitya!” Sasha added, patting at the medal tucked in Viktor’s jacket pocket.  “Before you win the Olympics!” 

Viktor smiled, ruffling his brother’s hair.  “Sure.” 

“Yes, come back and visit more often,” Viktor’s father added with a small, teasing smile.  “There’s no need to abandon us for so long again when you only live a train ride away.” 

Viktor kept his own smile fixed on his lips.  “Of course,” he said, and then waved with a wide, cheerful smile.  “Have a good night!” 

Viktor kept that smile on his lips until his family’s apartment door shut behind him.  Only then did he let his shoulders slump, his smile drop. He allowed himself a moment of hesitation before turning away and heading down the stairs.  He kept his chin raised high, and so didn’t notice the boy sitting near the second floor landing until he nearly tripped over him. 

“Hey!” the boy exclaimed angrily, jumping to his feet, dropping the cigarette he had been smoking.  “Watch where you’re going!” 

“I apologize, I didn’t see you,” Viktor said with a sheepish smile, and then took a double take.  Something about the boy was familiar, something in the way he held himself, or in his sharp, dark eyes- 

“Mikhail?” Viktor said hesitantly, and the boy squinted at him.  

“How do you know my name?” he said suspiciously, and Viktor smiled.  Mikhail’s family had lived a few floors below Viktor’s for years, and they had played in the streets together as children before Viktor moved to St. Petersburg.  

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov!” he said.  “Do you remember me?” 

Mikhail gave Viktor an appraising look.  “Are you the Nikiforovs’ nephew or something?” he said.  “I don’t think we’ve met.” 

Viktor’s smile flagged.  “I’m Sasha’s older brother.  You and I used to be friends.”  

Mikhail cocked his head to one side.  “I guess so,” he said, sounding unconvinced, and then something seemed to flicker in his eyes.  “Wait, are you the one that fucked off to Piter to dance or something?” 

“I figure skate, actually,” Viktor corrected.  

“Right, whatever,” Mikhail said, waving one hand.  “You look different. I didn’t recognize you.” He gave Viktor another once over.  “I guess figure skating pays well.” 

Viktor flushed.  “Mm.” 

He picked at his thumbnail until Mikhail said, “Well, have fun in Piter, I guess.  Maybe I’ll see you around if you ever come back to Moscow.” 

“Sure,” Viktor replied, his mouth dry, and took the opportunity to continue going down the stairs, just slow enough that it couldn’t really be considered  _ fleeing. _

He shivered a little in the cold as he stepped outside, and sighed to see his breath cloud in the air in front of him before setting off to find a cab, his chin dipped low.

***

“Is everything alright here?” Yuuri said calmly, and Viktor didn’t miss the way he positioned himself just slightly between Viktor and Yakov.  It would probably be best if a fight was avoided, especially in front of all the other banquet-goers. 

“Everything is fine,” Viktor said with gritted teeth.  

A muscle jumped in Yakov’s jaw, but for whatever reason he seemed less eager to argue with Viktor in front of Yuuri.  “Think about what I said,” he grumbled to Yurio, still scowling deeply. “Maybe you’ll come to your senses.” 

With that he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared into the crowd of sponsors.  Viktor relaxed slightly, but his fists didn’t unclench. 

“Thanks,” Yurio mumbled his hair falling over his eyes.  “Not that I needed it, old man.” 

Viktor’s lips twitched into a small smile in spite of himself.  “Skating what you want to is more important than maintaining your image,” he said.  “Yakov is behind the times. You’re fifteen, Yurio, you should have plenty of time to have fun.”  

“I still beat your fiancé, age be damned!” Yurio exclaimed, his eyes flashing, and Viktor’s heart swelled a little.  

“That’s not what I was trying to imply,” he said.  “You should have a good time skating to choreography that  _ you _ want to perform.”

“I know that,” Yurio said, bristling, but somehow Viktor could tell that he wasn’t really serious.  

Viktor reached out and unclenched his fingers to gently pat his rink mate on the shoulder.  “Go have fun at the banquet,” he said. Yurio gave him one last look, somewhere between admiring and irritated, before flouncing off in the opposite direction Yakov had gone.  

Once they were alone again, Yuuri took Viktor’s hand and laced their fingers together.  “OK?” he said, his voice quiet. 

Viktor nodded.  “I just don’t want him to be forced into the same mold I was,” he murmured.  “He deserves the chance to skate programs that let him show off all his strengths and emotions, not just the elegant ones.”  

“So did you,” Yuuri replied, his brow slightly furrowed.  They were silent for a beat, and then Yuuri asked, “Do you regret it, Vitya?  Changing your image, I mean?” 

Viktor hesitated, and then shook his head.  “No,” he replied. “When I started skating, I think it was the best thing to do.  I would be where I am if I hadn’t, I suspect. I wouldn’t have met you, my darling.  But…” he paused, searching for the right words. “No one so young should be forced into a box that doesn’t fit them.  Winning isn’t the same. Yurio deserves the chance to skate as himself.” 

Yuuri reached up, gently brushed Viktor’s face with his fingertips.  “You don’t have to be in any boxes either,” he said very quietly. “I hope, at least.  That you can take off any masks, be yourself as well. You deserve just the same as him.”  

Viktor smiled back, his heart beating quickly.  “I know,” he said. “I know. And won’t that be quite a nice surprise?”

**Author's Note:**

> For any interested parties, Alli's original prompt:
> 
> _After Barcelona gala, Yakov yells at Yuri Plisetsky about how his ex routine isn't fitting of a skater of his status. Victor argues against Yakov and encourages Yuri to skate it again in the future. He thinks the world has moved on and Yakov is too old fashioned._
> 
> _Victor wasn't always the darling of the skating world. In the beginning, he was rash, irreverent on the edge of impolite; his low socioeconomic background obvious. In his first years competing in Juniors, he's consistently underscored because he puts all of this on full display. He skates like an animal, powerful and rough. Frustrated, he complains to Yakov only to receive an earful about how skating is about image, wealth, culture, class. Judges want someone glamorous and refined to represent Russia. And so that's what Victor becomes, because skating is all he knows and all he can do. He starts to win, but his family and old friends drift away; they stop talking to him because he's "too fancy" now._
> 
> _He doesn't regret it, because there's no other way he could have gotten to where he was. But he's weary of Yuri being forced into the same mold, just because it's a historically successful formula. So he tells Yuri to keep being himself._
> 
> I can be found [here](https://iwritebetterthanispeak.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Have a wonderful day, dear reader!


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